White Blank Page
by MadameScarletteValentine
Summary: After the fall, John Watson's whole life changed. Now, three years later, things are changing again, but with his history of coping with stress and change, can he really trust what he sees, or is he hallucinating out of lonliness?


**A/N: So here we are! Another Johnlock fic and you didn't keep scrolling! Woot! The inspiration for this came from most of the fics I read having John go from "I'm not gay" to "take me now" in a matter of seconds, and I wanted to see one where he really struggled with the realization that he is in love with a man! I hope you enjoy, and please drop me a line to let me know how you like it!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any characters related to the BBC series or original stories. They all belong Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle respectively!**

Chapter One: Out In The Rain

After a particularly long and taxing day at the clinic John H. Watson drug himself through the streets of London. It was pouring rain, and most people were flagging down cabbies for a ride, but the doctor wouldn't have called for one even if he'd had the spare quid for it. He pulled his jacket around him, turning the collar up against his neck to keep the rain out of his shirt as he navigated the sidewalk, avoiding puddles and dodging those running to the taxis in the street.

John had come to love the way the violent chill of a rain like this would calm his raging mind. For almost three years it was his only solace from the pain and insanity that had come after watching his best friend….

The doctor shook his head and forced those thought away, but they were as stubborn as the man they focused on, and stayed with him as he walked. Checking his watch, he realized he had a bit of time before Mrs. Hudson would expect him home, and the quick math in his head told him it had been far too long since the last time he'd visited.

Jamming his hands into the pockets of his black jacket, he redirected himself towards the stairs that would lead him down to the tube. It didn't take long for him to reach the stop once on board, and when he emerged from the underground station, he found that the rain had let up a bit, though it was still a heavy drizzle.

The cemetery wasn't very far, and in a few moments, he was walking through the gates that had become so familiar to him in those first few months. The place was deserted, for obvious reasons, but Doctor Watson cherished the lonely atmosphere, letting the tension from the day roll off with the rain. All too soon, he was approaching the familiar tree that cast its gloomy shadow over the headstone that still gleamed in the dim light from the streetlamps.

John's lips twitched, a move that couldn't really be considered a smile, as he realized that even in death the man stood out. He stopped at the foot of the grave, and even though it had been almost six months since he'd last been here, even though the ground was soggy from the rain, he could still feel where the earth was packed down. He had stood in the same spot since that day, always unable to venture closer for fear that it would make this all too real for him.

He had gone to visit Sherlock's grave almost every day for the better part of a year, but as time wore on, he started visiting less. He'd had to take more hours at the hospital just to afford the flat he couldn't bear to move out of. Exhaustion from overtime drove him to become lazy in his visits, to the point that in the last year, he'd only visited once. On the Anniversary of their meeting. It seemed so long ago now, though it really wasn't in retrospect.

Now, John stood straight-backed and at attention as he looked down at the headstone with words that seemed to mirror who they stood for. Blunt and no nonsense, the headstone bore no silly sentimental, only a name.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Even though he'd lived everyday of the past three years alone, it all still seemed so unreal to him. It was like the man had just disappeared on a whim as per usual, and lost track of time. Sometimes John expected to walk in and find him arguing with the telly like nothing had happened. However, any time he got that feeling, he would return to an empty flat.

John had tried pouring himself into many other things to try and distract himself from Sherlock's death. Work, writing, women… but nothing worked. The only days he had respite were those when things would be so busy at the hospital that he would come home and pass out to a blissfully dreamless sleep. Those days were few in number and far between.

"Hi…" his voice sounded gravelly when he spoke, so he cleared his throat before pushing on, "I know it's been a while since I've been to see you. They've uh… they've given me more hours at the new job. You know, over at Barts." He bounced on the balls of his feet lightly, not sure what else to say.

"I had lunch with Molly Friday before last. She misses you…." Pinpricks stung his eyes and he pushed on, trying to find something else to say to drive them away, "To make her laugh, I told her that all the extra hours theiy're giving me would make me good on finally paying Mrs. Hudson back for the wall…." He looked away, the pricks stronger now as he watched the rain clouds building in the distance, blinking a few times against them.

He never had cried or mourned much for his best friend after his death, never really got the grief out of his system. It never really felt like the right time what with bills piling up and the need for a better paying job, so he covered it up by keeping himself busy. His therapist told him that it would explode in him violently at some point if he hadn't expressed it soon. That had been his last day to see her, almost two years ago.

To this day, he still hadn't 'exploded' even though sometimes he wished he had. Standing here now, he felt so full and sluggish, as if all this time, he'd been pushing everything he'd felt deep down, and little by little it had filled him up without him even realizing it was happening. He'd filled himself to the breaking point. This wasn't the right time…

John cleared his throat again, and clasped his hands behind his back. For a moment, he let his head dip forward to try and pull his crumbling emotions together. He couldn't do this here, not now. The man felt like he was grasping at strings of normalcy, trying to squeeze the need to be sad out of his system. Somehow it felt like if he finally let it out, if he let himself mourn, Sherlock would really be dead. Lungs tightened in his chest, and he began fighting for his breath as the heavy realization hit and all the weight he'd been ignoring came rushing in all at once.

The doctor stumbled under the weight of it, and found himself on his knees at the headstone of his best friend. The careful distance he'd kept was no longer there, and the soldier wrapped his fingers around the sides of the headstone, pressing his forehead against the coolness of it. It felt like the only think keeping him from sinking into the ground and he clung to it like a drowning man to a floating piece of wreckage. The pricking in his eyes became a burning, and the tightness in his chest became a pounding, until finally a cry was wrenched from his throat.

For the first time in three years, John Watson mourned the passing of his best friend and partner.

Knuckles were white from where he gripped the stone, and his shoulders heaved as he could do nothing but ride the waves of anguish as they washed over him. All the pain and uncertainty he'd been feeling manifested full force and rushed through him with an intensity he had never imagined was possible. Each choked sob that wracked his body brought back memories he'd locked away, letting them run rampant.

As if a movie were playing just for him, he could see Sherlock being arrested, and then pretending to take John hostage to protect him from being labeled an accomplice even though everyone knew the doctor would have followed him anywhere. His violent outburst that had earned him a spot next to the detective shoved against a police car had attested to that.

He remembered the strange warmth that had spread through his body when they had clasped hands to keep from dragging each other around by the handcuffs. The confusion he'd felt in that moment and the act of shoving it to the side when there were more important things ahead of them. All the anger he'd felt, the small doubt he continually shoved away just to have it thrown back in his face by Moriarty time and time again. His anger at Sherlock when he'd thought the man was being cold when he'd learned of Mrs. Hudson's injuries and acted as if he didn't care. The horrible realization he'd had when he'd found Mrs. Hudson just fine at Baker Street, and finally, that horrid phone call. The one that had ended it all.

"John, keep your eyes fixed on me. Can you do that for me?" He hadn't been aware of what that phrase had meant at the time. Sometimes he wondered if he had known, if he'd refused, would he have been able to spare a few more moments with them man. Could he have prevented it entirely if he'd only been able to see things the way Sherlock did?

"That's what people do isn't it? Leave a note?" Even though the consulting detective had been so far away, as John had looked up at him, he'd felt as if they were face to face. The moment had been so intense, he'd reached out as if to soothe his friend, but the reality hit him when the brunette reached out as well and all either of them touched was empty air. His best friend was in pain, was about to die, and he, John Watson couldn't do anything to stop it.

"Goodbye John…" And then Sherlock was falling, limbs flailing, and John was screaming. He didn't hear it, but his throat had been sore for days after. He had watched, as if in a trance, and it took a moment for his brain to kick in again. When it did, he had started running. Everything seemed to slow, and he could hear nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

So, naturally, he didn't see or hear the cyclist until he'd hit the ground. A sickening crack had made its way through the shock barrier covering his mind and deadened the outside world even more. His head had exploded with pain, but he couldn't stop. The mantra running through his mind had kept telling him to get up. Get up. Sherlock needed him, he had to get up.

Once he was close enough to be heard, he started crying out that he was a doctor. His mind was hazy and his whole body ached, but he needed to get to Sherlock. People began pulling at him or pushing him, trying to keep him away from the scene, but he soldiered on, shouldering someone out of his way. He finally grasped a pale ivory wrist just as two pairs of hands wrapped around his arms, pulling him back.

"He's my friend." He'd felt the words form on his lips more than he heard them, and fought harder until he had caught sight of Sherlock's open eyes. Dead, sightless eyes. A soft curse had slipped from his lips as he sank back into the arms pulling him, pulse forgotten as Sherlock's wrist had slipped from his grasp.

He had been whisked away from the doctor then. Just like that the man that had dominated his life from the moment they met was gone. It had been so hard to believe at first. The detective was too clever to fall for Jim Moriarty's tricks, but as time wore on, John found himself referring to Sherlock more and more in the past tense.

The rain picked up again as the memory of the man's last words surrounded him, hauntingly sad in their finality. John was crying now, he could tell by the burning trails on his rain chilled cheeks. Choked sobs continued ripping themselves from his lips as he leaned heavily against the stone before him. He let them pass, too weak in his despair to fight it back anymore.

"How could you Sherlock?" his words were quiet at first, but grew louder when he asked again, "How could you?!" He raised his fist and slammed it down on top of the inscription etched in the marble. It felt so good to release all his pent up anger that he did it again.

"You selfish bloody prick!" Each word was punctuated by a slam of his fist into the stone, "How could you do this?! There must have been a way out. You must have seen it!" The doctor slammed his fist into the stone one more time, a sickening crack piercing the air. He cringed and pulled his hand back, but didn't stop his verbal tirade.

"Mycroft… Lestrade…Mrs. Hudson… Molly… How could you do this to them? How…" emotion choked him up once more and it took a moment for his throat to loosen enough for him to speak again.

"How could you do this to me?"

The whispered words seemed to hang in the air around him as he cradled his injured hand against his stomach. John rocked back and forth gently as the memories kept running in his mind and the tears and sobs refused to fade.

It was a while before he got himself together enough to know he had to get himself out of the rain. Getting sick was the last thing he needed, he couldn't afford any time off of work.

The soldier stood slowly, wiping his face with a wet sleeve, clicked his heels together, and turned sharply, making his way back to the station. Once on the tube, he examined his hand to see what damage he had done. The knuckles at the peak of his hand were busted, bleeding weakly, and three of his fingers were already swollen and bruised. He'd broken them for sure. Absently, John made a mental note to splint them the best he could tonight to keep them protected while he tossed and turned tonight. He would have Amanda fix them up proper in the morning.

Halfway through the ride, a horrid chill set in on his body, and by the time he left the station a few blocks from Baker Street, he was shivering violently. It took him a few moments to slide the key into the lock, but once he was inside, delicious warmth slid over his skin. Mrs. Hudson must have started the fire for him when he hadn't come home at his usual time. When moving to the foot of the stair, John felt a little woozy, and leaned on the banister for a moment to bolster himself. His chest tightened when he tried to take a breath, and he grumbled in his mind, knowing for sure he had gotten himself ill. He gripped the banister tight, using it to support his tired body as he navigated the stairs. He'd take a hot shower, bandage his hand, and then pass out. He was sure he'd feel better in the morning.

The door was open, but it looked like Mrs. Hudson hadn't turned on any other lights. Watching his feet to keep from stumbling, John started shrugging his coat off, wincing as it grazed his swollen hand. When he made it in the door, he hung his jacket up on the peg and turned his back to the fire, his injured hand clenched against his hip. He was heading into the hall when a deep baritone voice stopped him dead.

"As a doctor, shouldn't you know that spending prolonged amounts of time out in the rain can lead to serious illness?"

**A/N: Alrighty! That's it for Chapter One! I hope you guys liked it! Poor John right? I have much more in store for him both happy and sad, But I promise things are not as bleak as they look!  
**


End file.
